She would. She was on her way.

Except she realized abruptly that the passion she was imagining was Castell Cottage. Not years of party planning for old school friends who still made her uncomfortable, but years of high tea and recipes. Which was rather a problem, since she planned to leave by the end of the month.

Just the thought was making her queasy. Shit, shit, shit.

She bit her lip and handed back the phone. “That’s amazing, Tess. I’ll subscribe.”

“Oh, thanks. You’re a doll.”

“What do you do?” Eve asked Alex, not just because she needed to change the subject before she overthought—well, everything, but because she really wanted to know.

Alex ran a hand over her buzz cut and offered a sheepish grin. “Oh, I’m a mechanic.”

“She runs the only local autoshop,” Tessa corrected sternly. “And she rebuilds classic cars.”

“That part’s just a hobby.”

“It could be a business, if she was more confident,” Tessa singsonged. It had the cadence of an oft-repeated argument.

Alex waved at Montrose. “Seriously, get me some vodka.”

Eve giggled—and tried not to feel too at home with these wonderful people, in this wonderful place. Tried not to feel more and more threads twining between her soul and Skybriar. Tried, and spectacularly failed.

But she was still scheduled to leave in less than two weeks.

“Anyway,” Alex said, turning back to the group. “Eve. What’s your thing?”

“I take care of people,” Eve replied. Nothing had ever sounded so right.

* * *

Jacob found himself staring sightlessly at the clock for what must be the thousandth time and dragged his eyes back to his computer. Technically, he supposed, he didn’t need to update the accounts at 1:15 A.M. on a Thursday. Technically, it wasn’t even the end of the month yet, so he shouldn’t be doing this at all. But he needed to do something while Eve was out—something other than lying in bed, thinking about her, wondering if she was having fun. Something other than calling Mont to report on her movements, which Mont would almost certainly refuse to do, and which would make Jacob an actual, official creep.

It wasn’t that he wanted to monitor her, exactly. It was just—every five minutes, he found himself wondering if he’d done the right thing, if this evening was making her happy, and the desire to know for sure was kind of eating him alive.

But. No creepy phone calls. Watching people too closely could stifle them. He’d learned that after his first girlfriend had found his spreadsheet tracking the details of their relationship and dumped him outside the local library.

So these accounts would have to do as a distraction. He turned back to his spreadsheet—this one thoroughly legitimate—and typed in a few more numbers before he heard it: the click of a key in the lock. That was the spare key to his private area, the one he’d given Eve shortly after discovering she’d, y’know, moved in.

She was back.